Actually, Cooper knew he should be glad of something to do tonight. He needed to occupy his mind. Ever since the incident on the tower, he’d been aware of a deep ache that he was reluctant to explore, a doubt that he’d never have the answer to. Could he have done more to save John Lowther? If he’d acted differently, if he’d stayed back, if he’d made a grab for the man sooner . . . Despite telling his story three or four times since the tragedy had happened, he didn’t know whether he’d done the right thing or not. He supposed it would be for other people to judge him.

‘This is more like home,’ said Kotsev, watching the crowds.

‘What?’

‘A big party in the street. People having fun. Give me a few stalls selling sunflower seeds, and I would be happy.’

‘You’ll have to make do with fish and chips.’

Kotsev laughed. ‘Mnogo vkusno. Delicious.’

They walked slowly through the beer garden behind the Midland Hotel, overlooking the river. Clusters of people were gathered at the Bikers’ Well near the war memorial. Here, the shallow river was bordered by horse chestnuts, branches skimming the surface of the water. Disused, ivy-covered steps led down to the water’s edge. Tilted beds of rock formed multi-coloured cliffs on the opposite bank. An old ceramic drainage pipe lay embedded in the mud near a scattering of shingle.

The illuminated boats were due to parade from New Bridge at the southern end of the village as far as the Pavilion, passing along the length of Derwent Gardens. On a map showing the start and finish, some comedian had drawn in a black shape halfway along the route and marked it ‘Bermuda Triangle’.

Cooper looked across the road. Fry and Murfin were standing in front of the chop house at the bottom of Holme Road, watching the crowds using a pedestrian crossing opposite the Thyme Restaurant.

Behind the Riverside Fish Restaurant was a boating jetty, then a row of shops leading to the Pavilion. Hulley’s buses were ferrying people from the park-and-ride area to the Pavilion car park, which had been reserved for emergency vehicles. Scores of motorbikes now lined the kerb on South Parade, all the way from the ice-cream parlour up to the aquarium. A girl was selling ice cream and slush puppies from a kiosk. A pair of mallard ducks stood hopefully on the pavement outside a fish shop.

There was no sign of Brian Mullen, and Derwent Gardens weren’t open to the crowds yet. Cooper crossed the road to the corner of Temple Road. The car park here was full, too. He and Kotsev walked along the rows of cars, looking for Mullen’s red Citroën without success.

Cooper turned at the end of a row, and Kotsev touched his arm.

‘Ben, it’s OK.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You shouldn’t worry about such things. About such people.’